Dear Santa
by 100-percent-Harry-Potter-obsessed
Summary: Hermione Granger writes a letter to Santa Claus on the eve of Christmas, feeling hopeless. MidDH, at the end of chapter 17. Oneshot.


**A/N:**I know that Meg's going to murder me because I have not yet finished "The Christmas Present," and it _is_ true that I may never finish it, but I hope to do so before New Year's.

Ahem - right - yeah, so...

**Disclaimer:** If you recognize it, I don't own it. End of story. Period.

**Dedication:** **Tonks-Rocks**, because _she _rocks, and has proved to be a great friend and source of support. I was originally going to dedicate "The Christmas Present" to you, Michaela, but we all know how _that's_ going.

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**Dear Santa**

_Dear Santa,_

_Or should I say, Mr. Claus? I'm not exactly sure which you would prefer, really. Saint Nicholas, perhaps? Father Christmas? Jolly Old Saint Nick?_

_It is possible that I am going too far, and should stop rambling while I still have the ability to do so._

_Sir, I must start with sincerely apologizing for not writing you these many, many years. However, ever since I came to the age of eleven and discovered magic to be authentic, I have had a sneaking suspicion that you are, in fact, the main source of gift-giving in our outside world (as well as the Muggle), and receive thousands of letters, not unlike mine, each year. Hence, I find it quite impossible for you to answer each and every young child's plea of good fortune, and therefore, I have not written since ere my Hogwarts days._

_As I've only just found it is Christmas Eve (through _quite_ the frightful expedition that was today), you'll have to excuse my tardiness of correspondence._

_I once asked you – did I not? – for a book. Not just_ any_ book, though. I desired a _romance_ book with action, adventure, excitement, and most of all, a _love_ shared between two of its characters. And while I did receive said novel that year (brilliant choice, by the way), I also know now that I no longer need such legends to keep my mind racing throughout the day._

_You see, Santa, I have found a story of my own – a _trail_, of sorts, that cannot be followed or retraced by others. Sir, I have finally found the action and adventure and excitement that I once craved through the musty pages of fairy tales like "Robin Hood" and "Jack and the Beanstalk." _

_Perhaps most significantly, I must note, _is_ the area of romance. Mr. Claus, I have found someone that I wish to give my heart to. _

_This someone can be caring and kind and considerate at times, a right git at others, and every now and then, frightening, because he is _so_ much deeper than what others make him out to be. He makes my stomach twist into odd knots each time he looks my way, and I can feel my throat constrict each time light, freckled fingers brush against mine. _

_What I'm attempting to say, Santa (and failing miserably I might add), is that I am in love with one Ronald Bilius Weasley, and it's driving me up a wall not being able to tell him this. I'm worried sick as to his whereabouts. I can't sleep, I can't eat, and the stupid tears that continuously fall from my eyes won't halt, no matter how many times I magic them away._

_The main purpose of this letter, I must finally ask, is to request of you one thing. _

_Would it be possible to send Ron back to me this Christmas? He may need a bit of persuasion. Please give him a sign or a warning or something. I'll take whatever I can get. I just – _need_ him here, you know?_

_I hope you are successful, as if you are able to somehow do this, you might just bring a little bit of Christmas spirit back into me. I'm beginning to think that not _all _magic has logical explanations._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione J. Granger

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**A/N:** Right...so, some of you might be wondering where that came from. I must say that I am being the SCROOGE of all Scrooges this Christmas, and then, it hit me to write, and try to get some of the pent-up anger out. Each time I sat at the computer, however, my inbox of unread alerts continued to build up, and when I _did _actually write (at times few and far between) it was two or three lines added on to "The Christmas Present," which, at the rate_ I'm_ going, may never be completed.

So, tonight, I sat down at the computer desk and shut the door, thinking what a miserable Christmas this will turn out to be, when I remembered someone else with such a burdened holiday.

Hermione.

I plugged in my iPod (which I _never _use, by the way), sent it to _Beethoven's Symphony No. 9_, and just began to type.

I already know that criticism will be headed my way for those writers who are extremely neat and precise about their work, and usually, I'm up there with said meticulous authors. I simply can't bring myself to put up a fight at the moment, and so I say, with welcome arms, bring on the (hopefully) _constructive_ criticism.

Oh, yeah, and happy holidays!

100-percent-HP-obsessed


End file.
